


on your sweet temples (a crown of love)

by karasunotsubasa, Saniika



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Abuse, Aftercare, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Murder, Fairy Tale Curses, Fairy Tale Retellings, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic, Physical Abuse, Verbal Abuse, accidental murder, care and comfort, felicia and the pot of pinks au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 16:08:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15585657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karasunotsubasa/pseuds/karasunotsubasa, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saniika/pseuds/Saniika
Summary: When Victor and Ivan's father dies, he leaves Victor to a life of pain with only one thing to bring a semblance of happiness to his dreary days – a charmed pot of pinks that, unknown to anyone else, is much more than it seems to be at first glance.





	on your sweet temples (a crown of love)

**Author's Note:**

> heed the warnings in the tags friends!  
> this fic will include: **physical abuse, starving, verbal abuse, attempted murder, accidental murder**  
>  this is NOT a fluffy read despite the happy ending! proceed with caution!

 

 

Once upon a time at the edge of the woods in a remote place where none dared dwell sat a little cottage housing a small family. The mother long gone from deadly fever, it was just a father and his two sons, one older than the other. What was given in age to Ivan, it took from his kindness. He was a rash man, a brute, and handled all in the same stern manner. The younger of the brothers, Victor, was his direct opposite – kind, thoughtful and considerate of others. Perhaps so much that at times he forgot to be considerate towards himself.

 

They struggled, like many a family void of one parent does, but the children yearned naught for clothes or food as they grew up into fine young men. They were the pride and joy of their father, who even on his deathbed wished to offer them the world. The world, however, he did not have, so in best will he left them what little possessions were his to give.

 

To Victor, the younger, he offered their mother's precious flower – a pot of lovely pinks that cheered up the family in hard times with their sweet scent and merry blossoms – and a silver ring that once belonged to the grandmother of their maternal cousin who wished it be given to the youngest of their line through the future generations.

 

To Ivan, then, he left everything else – the house, the stools inside it, the little garden by the forest side, and every penny he'd managed to save.

 

They mourned the loss of their parent and Victor shed tears at the burial site behind the old church. Ivan's face, usually hardened and cold, grew even more so with every gaze of the concerned townspeople that looked at the two orphans with pity. Before Victor was done paying his respects, before he could even fully say his goodbyes to the father he had loved, Ivan was grabbing him by the arm and dragging him away: back to the house that now breathed the deathly emptiness of parental warmth.

 

Silence was all they'd heard between them for days on end. There were no words to exchange, for there was no topic for them to breach. Every conversation started the same.

 

"Do you remember how father used to hunt in the forest for wild duck?" Victor would ask at supper, looking sadly into his soup.

 

Ivan would say nothing to it, and when Victor continued – "He'd bring it home and I'd help him pluck the feathers… Remember the pillow I made for you from that swan he caught three summers ago? It was so soft!" – Ivan would bang his fist on the table, lift up his face and spit at him:

 

"Be quiet!" he'd say. "Father is already gone, what's the use in talking about him?! He's dead!"

 

And like told, Victor would fall quiet, curl into himself, and stay in his memories, because they were the only thing that still made him smile.

 

It wasn't easy. He didn't enjoy it. But their father trusted them to take care of each other in their times of need and Victor was a good son. He wanted to be true to his father's last wishes and so, he told himself that despite everything he ought to be by Ivan's side and help him through this pain.

 

Even when it was hard, even when Ivan returned home from a day spent working in the fields, even when he went out again and returned drunk… Victor was there to take him by the arm, guide him to the bed, undress and wash him, and care for him. It was a routine Victor was used to, a familiar rhythm of the day that they both followed without second thoughts.

 

It didn't last, like all things don't.  

 

"You shouldn't drink so much," Victor told Ivan one night when his older brother stumbled into the house after his nightly visit to the tavern.

 

The anger came with no warning.

 

Victor caught Ivan before he could sway off his feet, drunk as he was, but before he could straighten them both up he was pushed away. The force knocked him into the wooden table, where he hit his hip harshly on the pointy edge. Victor sucked in a breath, keening in pain. He squeezed his eyes shut, which blinded him to the hand reaching for the collar of his cotton tunic until it pulled him roughly around.

 

Face red and blotchy, Ivan reared his head. His eyes gleamed with malice and Victor took an involuntary step back, but the hand that was holding him refused to let go. His withdrawal seemed to anger Ivan even more, because his upper lip lifted in a sneer so full of disgust it made Victor flinch and look away.

 

"What do you know?" Ivan barked. "What do you know about drinking, huh?" He shook Victor like a ragdoll, mad glint in his drunken gaze. " _Nothing._ You know nothing, you waste of space, so don't go ordering me around! You're living here because I let you, because I earn money for you to eat, so don't tell me what to do or I'll kick you out into the woods for the wild beasts to feast on!"

 

Trembling, Victor bit his lip and stayed quiet. It wasn't the first time Ivan threatened him, not the first time he pushed him. But every time before there was the wrath of their father to keep him from crossing the line… and now, with father gone, there was nothing to stop him.

 

There was no one to wipe Victor's bitter tears away, either.

 

For a while the household returned to the state of quiet avoidance and Victor almost believed it was a onetime occurrence. But the more distance he kept from Ivan, busying himself with housework and crafts, the more it seemed to irritate his brother.

 

One morning, when Victor was about to sit down on a stool to weave dolls from the corn husks left from last week's harvest, which they could then sell at the market for a few pennies, Ivan spoke from his porridge, not sparing Victor a glance:

 

"Who said you can use that stool?"

 

The question hung in the air like a bad joke, a cruel guessing game at which Victor had no chance of winning. Victor paused. He must have heard wrong, he thought, and explained himself with true astonishment.

 

"No one, I guess? I thought I will borrow it for a moment while I work on the dolls… I wanted to sell them. The autumn is approaching and you need a new coat."

 

"Well then, think again! This _no one_ forbids you to use that stool," Iwan spat and fed himself a few spoons of the meal before he continued. "In fact, you will not touch anything of my possession. It's enough that I'm allowing you to keep your room and live with me. A coat won't help me much when winter comes and we don't have enough wood for the fire or food for our bellies. Don't think I don't see through you."

He glared, a visage so mean that Victor shrunk away on instinct.

"You're just trying to avert my attention with your pretended kindness, but guess what?! _I don't need your kindness._ This house needs income to keep itself, not pretty gestures! A coat won't feed me and I won't work for everything that's needed alone, forget it! From today you will work twice as hard to earn your place here."

 

The wooden spoon was then thrown into the bowl with disgust and Ivan roughly shoved both away. He climbed to his feet to which Victor flinched, but Ivan only spared him a sneer before he was on his way to the cupboard where they held all keys in a little chipped jar. Ivan took out one key and promptly locked the pantry, after which he turned to the bewildered Victor and said:

 

"You've eaten enough for today. You don't work the fields and it's a waste to feed you as much food as I need. From tomorrow, you'll be allowed to eat only what's left from my plate."

 

With that said, Ivan left the house. The door shut behind him harshly as if he didn't just speak to his own brother, but a vermin that was a sore on his good mood. Victor's fingers trembled when they crumbled the corn leaves that rested forgotten in his hands. He didn't even care to pick up the ones that slipped from them.

 

Before now Victor could blame Ivan's cruelty on bad temper and the heat of the anger, but this… this ran deeper than he could ever fathom. It wasn't something Ivan could take back, ignore or pretend it hadn't happened if enough time had passed. It was a calculated, cruel move that took planning.

 

Ivan wasn't one to take back his words when they were young, not even when their father tried to beat manners into him with a cane or their mother lamented from shame. That's why Victor knew that now, with both their parents gone, Ivan would not take his words back either.

 

It could only get worse.

 

And Ivan did not disappoint.

 

Hard work during the day split Victor's fingertips open and the blood that seeped from the cuts tainted the corn leaves and the fabric he was washing. He was hungry, tired and hurt, but he'd done his duty and completed the chores in the hope that maybe it'd be enough to make Ivan happy, to make him see that Victor wasn't a waste, that he was needed.

 

Evenings were significantly the worst. Victor moved around Ivan like a shivering mouse, walking on eggshells and watching hungrily each bite that disappeared in his brother's mouth. He knew he shouldn't stare, but he was too hungry to be considerate. Too desperate to be cautious.

 

His luck had ran out after a week. His behaviour did not go unnoticed and Ivan's patience spread thin until he kicked the only other stool at Victor and shouted:

 

"Disappear from my sight! Begone! I can't eat in peace when you hover over me like a starved dog! There's no dinner for you tonight!"

 

When Victor didn't move fast enough to comply, Ivan shot up to his feet and threw the stool at him in anger. It caught Victor on the arm and he gave a pained gasp, but the fear was larger than his pain and so, he ran. He sought refuge in his room, cowering behind his bed. Ivan, thankfully, did not follow him there, but to feel just a bit more safe Victor pushed his bed against the door, so he wouldn't be caught unawares when Ivan returned home at night: drunk and even more angry.

 

In his bare room, he sat on the floor and hid his face in his palms. The sobs came easy and were hard to keep down, which made him choke under the pressure. He needed to be quiet, be silent, be invisible, but he _couldn't_.

 

Ivan stayed true to his word. He kept Victor on a few spoons of soup or porridge, and sometimes not even that. Victor was lucky if a piece of bread was left and he could clean the empty plate with it. The berries in the garden behind the house didn't help much either, because they were not meant to be eaten. Once, in a fit of desperation, Victor tried – it hurt even more than hunger did, and he swore them off.

 

His stomach ached from days of eating less than the town's strays, yet he didn't dare to even think about stealing. Ivan, as illiterate as he was, knew the exact amount of the seeds and fruits that were kept in the pantry. If, by chance, Victor could somehow get into the locked storage. Which he couldn't do either.

 

He felt like a failure.

 

With the lack of food came the overbearing coldness that Victor couldn't chase away no matter how hard he rubbed his hands together. He had to look for alternative ways to keep the cold at bay. Deep in the night, when Ivan snored in what used to be their parents' room, Victor dared to heat up a pot of water. He'd soak little scraps of fabric in the blissfully hot water and rub their warmth into his body in this form of a makeshift bath.

 

It wasn't much, but it allowed him to sleep without shivering all through the night.

 

There were nights when Victor didn't manage it, for the lack of strength and overbearing fright. Those were the nights like this, spent crying and crying, with no end to his tears until a sweet scent crept through his fingers and kissed his nose. Victor opened his eyes, pulling his hands back from his face.

 

Of course!

 

His mother's flowers: the pinks, the lovely pinks with their little flowers trembling on the long stems. The moonlight spilled over them through the small window as the clouds parted to let it shine down on earth. For a moment Victor almost thought their dancing was trying to tell him something, but it couldn't be, since no doors were open, no windows to give them air to move.

 

Thinking that he was being delusional from hunger and fatigue, Victor smiled at his own silliness. The tears felt lighter then, warmer too, a tender caress against his cheek, just like his mother used to touch him when he was sad.

 

He approached the pinks and trailed their petals with tear-moistened fingers. The little flowers soaked the wetness up, as starved for it as Victor was for food.

 

"I'm sorry," he told the tiny new buds that struggled to bloom. "I've neglected you. The last gift from my beloved parents and I can't even take care of you…"

 

The more Victor thought about the past – his kind parents and the moments they all shared at the table – the more he yearned for it, and new tears welled up in his eyes. They trickled down his cheeks, falling straight into the pot. Consumed by the grief of the past, the present, and the future, he didn't spare the flowers another glance and went to bed. The whole day had been filled with hardship and another was not going to be any better, he knew.

 

Victor curled up on the bed, tears still fresh and falling as he drifted off into shallow sleep. He dreamed fretfully of thunder and storm, of heavy rainfall that could hide his pain away, but not relieve it. He tossed and turned, but did not wake when the silver moonlight peeked through the clouds and fell into the room once more. It lit up the dark with its gentle hand and softly touched the little petals of Victor's beloved flower, shining off the little droplets of the tears that still lingered upon it.

 

It would've been a beautiful sight, if anyone was to witness it. But the world was wrapped deep in slumber and no human eye was there to catch the ethereal glow that came from the pot of pinks. Like buds opening under the caring sun, the pinks danced and grew until in their place stood a young man of handsome features: eyes of warm brown and hair dark like the night he'd appeared from, upon which sat a crown woven out of pink blossoms.

 

"Oh," the young man whispered quietly, surprised at his human form. He lifted a hand to his eyes that now were full of admiration. "How did I…?"

 

His gaze fell onto the bed, the same where Victor was fighting against the troublesome dreams. The young man's face softened. Affection took the place of surprise and he made his way towards the bed with careful steps, as if not to awaken the sleeping Victor.

 

It was all thanks to him, Victor, that he was able to take this form again. It wasn't enough to break his curse – that could be done only with equally as powerful magic, and humans possessed none of it – but just being whole again for an hour at night was better than being forever frozen in his pot.

 

The young man sat at the bedside and tenderly caressed Victor's cheek.

 

"You're so kind," he said quietly. "Even in your suffering, you still care for me."

 

There was an old, almost faded bruise on Victor's jaw and the young man's fingers slipped from his cheek to lightly brush against the skin there. It healed without a trace under his touch and he moved his hand across the expanse of the wounds on the sleeping man's body. He wished them all away and they were gone, obedient and tame.

 

The young man wiped the still fresh tears from Victor's face with warm hands, which he then ran through the silver strands of hair, spilled over the bed like moonlight itself.

 

"In return for your kindness, for your sweet heart," the young man whispered, leaning down to press a little kiss to Victor's forehead. The shaky breathing and soft whimpering disappeared as Victor succumbed to restful sleep. "It has been long practiced that kindness should only be repaid with kindness, but there are times when the rule is broken. Hard times, and even harder ahead for you. I wish to offer my help, but it is not my place."

 

"Stay strong, Vitya," the young man whispered into Victor's ear. "Stay kind. You will be happy again, I know it."

 

Maybe Victor had heard him in his dreams, or maybe he'd dreamed the whole thing, but when he awakened on the morn of the next day he felt light, he felt warm, he felt full – like the burdens of living have been lifted off his shoulders for the first time in forever. With new energy he set out to work, forgetting for a moment that everything could be spoiled in a nick of time.

 

And that, forgetting, was his biggest mistake.

 

The days grew shorter, as did Ivan's temper. More often than not Victor found himself running to his room in fear of his brother's wrath. As soon as he'd closed the door of his little sanctuary, Victor felt like he could breathe again. His gaze would fall on the pot of pinks and he'd smile a little to himself when their sweet scent would welcome him with open arms: warm, accepting, kind.

 

The chores always left him exhausted, but every night, dutifully, Victor would take a small bucket and leave the house to bring fresh water from the river passing close to the forest. It was the only thing he could do to give thanks to his only friend for cheering him up and he wasn't going to give it up.

 

One night, though, as he was drawing water into the bucket, he spotted flickering lights on the other side of the stream. Since it was shallow, and Victor was a curious person in nature, he stepped over the slippery rocks and came close – only to see a banquet table with the most exquisite of foods one could imagine laid out for the enjoyment of a woman dressed in golds and silks, and rubies. Next to her stood two servants, offering her fruits on big silver platters, and behind were another three with pitchers of drink that they refilled every time her cup ran empty. It was a feast truly meant for a queen.

 

Victor's mouth watered at the delightful smell of food that reached him even from far away. Before he could stop it, his stomach gave a loud growl. The queen's head lifted from the bowl of something steamy and delicious, and she looked in the direction where Victor quickly hid himself behind a tree.

 

"Who's there I see?" she asked. "There, by that tree! Come out! It's lonely eating on my lonesome, come out to join me."

 

Ashamed at having been caught, Victor stepped out of his hiding spot and bowed. "Forgive my intrusion, Your Majesty. I was merely drawing water by the stream when I noticed the lights. I meant no offense."

 

The queen waved a hand and from thin air a chair appeared on the other end of the table. Victor startled. His mouth might have hanged ajar for a moment, after which his cheeks darkened in embarrassment that the queen had to have seen that.

 

"Sit with me," she spoke to him kindly. "Eat some. My stomach is far too small to carry all of this back home, it'd be a waste if you don't."

 

With the hunger so acute it pained him, Victor could not find a reason to decline. He took the offered place and accepted a goblet of sweet-smelling wine while his plate was filled with fruits and cheese, and bread so fluffy it could've been a cloud. His eye was drawn to the bowl the queen was eating from, though, and she must have noticed him looking, because she smiled at him and offered him one just like it.

 

Inside were slices of meat – pork, Victor believed – and eggs, scallions, and white grain that the queen called 'rice'. The smell itself made Victor's mouth water, but when he took the first bite it seemed like a dam had been broken: he shovelled food into himself faster than he could chew.

 

It was divine. Was that what gods eat, he wondered.

 

"No," the queen smiled. "But it was my son's favourite, so I thought you might like it as well."

 

Not having realized he'd spoken out loud, Victor flushed. The queen had been so kind to him, so welcoming and sweet that Victor couldn't help wanting to repay her for the goodness of her heart.

 

"There is nothing I need." She shook her head. "But if you truly wish, I would not mind eating with you again."

 

"I would love that, Your Majesty," Victor told her truthfully. "Yet I must insist. There isn't much I own, but I do have a pot of beautiful pinks. It belonged to my mother before me, and I'm sure you'd love it as much as I do. Let me gift them to you as a symbol of friendship."

 

"Very well," she said. "I'll take good care of them, I promise."

 

Victor smiled and, with a light heart, he returned home to fetch the flowers for the queen. His good mood disappeared as soon as he stepped back into the house, though.

 

The windows in his room were all broken and pieces of glass were strewn over the floor. It crunched with each step Victor made as he took in the trashed state of the room. His bedding was ripped to shreds and the wooden boards holding it together have been halved as if by an axe. Yet even that wouldn't have been enough to make Victor weep, except that when he looked at the windowsill where his beloved pinks have always sat… the old, chipped pot was empty.

 

The tears welled in Victor's eyes, but he couldn't dwell on it. The queen was waiting for him and he needed to thank her somehow. With the pinks gone, the only other thing Victor had of his own was the silver ring. It would mean nothing to the queen who had more riches on her one finger, but Victor still hoped that his feelings of gratitude would come across.

 

He pulled up one of the floorboards and fetched the dusty ring from beneath it. He wiped it clean with the hem of his shirt and quietly left the house again.

 

"I'm so sorry about it," he told the queen, offering her the ring. "I went for the pot of pinks, but it was gone. My brother must have taken them, but, please, accept this instead."

 

The queen slid the ring onto her finger and rubbed Victor's head while he still bowed. Her hand was warm and that same warmth seemed to spill into all of Victor's limbs. It made it easier to breathe and when Victor looked up at her, smiling wasn't as difficult as before.

 

"Fare well, sweet child," she said. "If you're ever hungry again, come find me."

 

Victor watched the queen leave until he was left alone in the complete darkness of the night. He returned home, dreading every second of the short walk back. He was right to fear it, too, because as soon as he stepped foot into the house, Ivan grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt and shook him around hard enough to make Victor's teeth chatter.

 

"Where's the ring?!" Ivan hollered. "Where did you hide it, you useless piece of trash?!"

 

"I don't have it anymore!" Victor shouted. He tried to free himself, but Ivan held strong. "Where is my flower? What did you do to it? Give it back!"

 

"Don't lie to me," Ivan growled. "Where is it? Where's the ring?!"

 

"I gave it away! And even if I didn't, I would never give it to you! It's mine! Father left it to me, you have no business with–"

 

His voice choked off into a strangled cry when Ivan backhanded him across the face. Victor stumbled back, freed of Ivan's hold. He clutched at his cheek that stung from the force of Ivan's anger.

 

Ivan's eyes burned in the darkness with evil and malice.

 

"Don't talk back to me, you pest," he hissed. "You don't get to tell me what to do. Everything in this house is mine, you included, so I can do with it whatever I want! Now, spit it out, where's the ring? Where did you hide it?"

 

"I don't–" Victor rasped, blinking tears away. "I don't have it. I told you."

 

"Very well," Ivan said in a faux calm voice that made Victor's heart jump into his throat with fear. "If you want to be this way, then so be it. Don't tell me I didn't ask nicely."

 

And before Victor could react, Ivan advanced on him and grabbed him by his braid. Victor's pained gasp was ignored completely as he was dragged to the door, outside, and then thrown next to the chopping block. A sob escaped from Victor's lips.

 

No. It couldn't be. Ivan wouldn't– They were _brothers_ , he wouldn't–

 

Ivan put Victor's head onto the block.

 

"Please, don't do this," Victor begged.

 

Tears were now flowing freely down his cheeks and there was nothing left of his dignity, but it didn't matter.

 

"Please, Vanya, _please_ … I'm your–"

 

"Shut up," Ivan growled, grabbing the axe from the nearby wood pile. "Don't move your head or I'll really kill you."

 

Fear seized him by the heart when his blood brother lifted an axe over his head. Victor squeezed his eyes shut. He was unable to hold back his sobs, but it didn't matter to Ivan. Ivan swung the axe and Victor whimpered when it thumped into the wooden block right behind his nape.

 

He was motionless with fear, trembling, and never noticed that Ivan only cut off the silver braid of his hair, which he then grabbed without a care for Victor's tears.

 

"It isn't what I wanted, but this silver should bring a good price as well," Ivan said. Then snorted, full of derision. "It's the only thing you're worth anymore, so make sure you earn your keep, _little Vitya_."  

 

He left then, staggering away in drunken stupor. Victor collapsed on the ground. He was shaking with fear, relief – he didn't even know which was stronger. His trembling hand run through what was left of his hair: the uneven ends, the rough cut of it, the bareness of his neck…

 

He couldn't think, couldn't breathe. The sobs that wrecked his body were harsh and pained, and he fought for every gasp of air. Victor didn't know how long he'd spent crying, but when he remembered his missing pinks he forced himself to stand. They were more important than just his hair, he tried to tell himself, and yet...

 

The tears never stopped flowing when he searched the house. He found the potless plant hidden under his brother's bed and he snatched it before Ivan could return. He barely got enough strength to drag himself back to his room and, there, he lied in the wreckage of his destroyed bed, cradling the pinks to his chest.

 

"I'm sorry," he told the little crushed petals, "I'm so sorry…"

 

He cried himself to sleep while the apologies spilling from his lips in a tearful mantra mixed with fervent wishes of never waking up.

 

The owl hooted at midnight, announcing the hour in the cottage. Its song snuck into Victor's room through the broken, gaping windows along with the wind and the night's chill. The little flowers shivered, pressed close to Victor's heart, and as the bird sung its last notes, a young man came into being in the place of the mangled plant.

 

His hands couldn't wrap quickly enough around Victor, a return of the embrace that Victor held him in. Worried, the young man watched for any signs of harm that might have been done to Victor and pressed his lips together in suppressed anger while he counted the marks scattered over Victor's body, their color as deep and dark as violets.

 

"You unfortunate soul. What has he done to you this time?"

 

He had seen the hardships Victor was forced to suffer through, had watched mutely from his pot as Ivan destroyed the humble bed Victor slept in. The little possessions that Victor had were completely damaged beyond repair.

 

Powerlessness made the young man's blood boil, but his anger would mean nothing to Victor.  He thought of what he could do for Victor as he peered into his sleeping face. He allowed his fingers to trail through the roughly chopped silver tresses. Their uneven length didn't take away even a bit of Victor's loveliness, yet the ends felt coarse against the young man's fingertips. He imagined how they would prickle at Victor's skin, rub it red unpleasantly, and his mind was made up for him before he even knew it.

 

"I wish to help you, Vitya. It's such torture to watch you suffer like this without being able to do a thing," he spoke kindly, emotion lingering on this tongue and sweetening the room once more with a scent akin to the blooming flowers. The fragrance made Victor breathe slower as if his lungs were breathing anew, free of constraints of hopeless crying.

 

"Rest now, I'll take care of you. Sleep, sleep and don't wake up till I'm naught but a plant in the pot again."

 

The young man swept his palm over Victor's head, lightly touching Victor's eyelids, nose, lips, and cast a spell on the whole house, sending all of its residents into deep slumber.

 

And once it was done, he stood up and put himself to work.

 

He found a broom, with which he swept all the dirt, glass and wood off the floor as best as he could. He caught all the feathers from the ruined pillow and returned them into the linen casing. Softly, he lifted Victor's head and rested it on the mended pillow with a tender smile. He gathered all the splinters next, one by one picking them off the floor, before he pieced the bed whole again.

 

Even though those were old, damaged things, with the young man's touch the floor and the wood became warmer, and the mattress turned softer. He handled all very carefully, making sure the care Victor put into growing the pinks was reflected in here as well – reflected in this same need to protect and treasure that the young man felt towards Victor as well. He didn't mind using his own hands to so it. He simply wanted to share with Victor all that he could and more, since it was the first time that he wished to give so much to another.

 

Even his magic.

 

He didn't mind using his own flowers, every small pink blossom unreeling a magic thread that fixed all that was earthly and broken.

 

When he was finally satisfied with the state of the room, he approached Victor once more. He knew Victor would not wake, but the young man still caressed the swollen cheekbone gently with the back of his hand. His knuckles melted the bruises as they touched the skin and soon, a healthy blush returned to Victor's cheeks.

 

Through his sleep, Victor sighed in such a delight, the young man was sure Victor was dreaming of the sweetest of dreams. He smiled, satisfied, yet still somewhat pained. There was one more thing he had to do.

 

He took one of the stools from the main room up to the bed and sat a deeply slumbering Victor against the headboard. Under the bright moonlight, the young man plucked another pink from his crown to conjure crystal scissors, which snipped the air without his prompting, magical that they were. It let the young man thread through Victor's silver strands, even them out and tug gently at the knots that had formed there from the distressed hands that Victor ran into it in despair. The blades clipped as they cut the edges even and pretty, and every now and then, the young man's lips blessed the crown of Victor's head, making silent promises to make him beautiful evermore.

 

He nodded once he was done. The few long tresses laid coiled on the floor like vines made of silvery moonlight. He missed the braid of thick hair Victor used to have, but he was also happy that Victor's head was lighter now, of worry and hair both – if only for a minute.

 

The short hair made Victor look graceful, showing his nape and accentuating the noble curve of his cheekbones and jaw. Like by the touch of a magic wand, it turned a shy mouse into a handsome prince. Victor, with his head bowed in the deep sleep, reminded the young man of a snowdrop bud that caved under its own weight, fragile, but pure and beautiful in its simplicity.

 

"You are so strong, you try so hard," the young man whispered against the side of Victor's head. "If only the others could see what I do."

 

He gathered Victor into his arms and lowered him onto the bed with little effort. Despite using so much of his magic before, he felt strong. As if he was carrying something precious, something tender right against his heart.

 

His chest swell the more he watched Victor's sweet face. His time was running out fast, the young man knew, but he found himself wishing for more. More of Victor's time, more of the magic that brought him back his human form... _more_.

 

His intentions were pure, mostly, yet he also found that he wanted to touch Victor for his own pleasure as well. The yearning to card Victor's fringe with his fingers, to trace the line of Victor's eyebrow to his ear, to tuck back the unruly hair on Victor's temple – it was there, growing stronger with each breath he took.

 

"How I wish I could tell you. Wake you up and speak of nothing but how dear you have become to my heart. How I have willingly fallen into the trap of your sweet affection..."

 

He didn't dare to speak the rest, feeling that it should be said directly, and thus decided to sing about it in a song. Victor would never understand the words, but the sentiment… maybe...

 

His voice carried softly through the room, slid gently over Victor's shoulders and escaped through the window out into the woods, out into the night, and out into Victor's dreams, sending the earnest truth of the young man's feelings to Victor's very heart. In his sleep, Victor smiled a lovely smile, and so the young man continued to hum as his voice lulled his beloved into peaceful rest.

 

All too soon, the young man's chest constricted at the sound of the owl announcing the end of his time. He stood up reluctantly and lingered at the bedside to caress Victor's head one last time. With a heavy sight, he pressed a heartfelt kiss onto Victor's temple. The charm the young man put on the house must have been losing its effect, because Victor stirred lightly.

 

It was time.

 

"The day to tell you my feelings has not yet come, but I shall watch over you close. Persevere, Vitya. Know that I am with you every step of the way and I will never leave you to suffer alone. Turn to me when you feel lost, when hope gives you up, and I will comfort you. Please, be safe."

 

Whispering his parting words, the young man stepped away from the bed.

 

A flicker of moonlight later, the young man was again nothing but a bunch of pinks on the floor, weak and fading. The stems could barely hold the flowers and the leaves hung down, almost dead. The roots were drying out, clinging to bits of earth that weren't enough to nurture them. Yet the sweet smell persisted through the night and waited for Victor to awaken, comforting and generous like it always was.

 

Victor woke up slowly from the beautiful dream he'd had. The ringing of the fae songs still filled his ears as he opened his eyes. He lingered in bed for a moment longer while his body yearned for the tender caress that the unknown words promised.

 

He'd dreamt that he was safe in a bird's nest, resting on the softest grass. His skin was tended to with healing dew and herbal salve that smelled of honey and pine. Warmth wrapped him like a lover's arms and it was almost as if he spent the night in a caring embrace, cradled, cared for, protected.

 

The sensation was so vivid still that Victor's cheeks reddened. His heart trembled in his chest with something that he couldn't name, couldn't comprehend. He had to take a moment once he sat up to leave the bed.

 

His cheekbone tingled as if the imaginary lover just bid him farewell with a sweet kiss. Victor's hand lifted to touch the place, foolishly thinking he might conjure the person to his side once more. He was almost sure that if he kept his eyes closed for just a bit longer, he might remember more than just warm brown eyes.

 

But he luck wasn't on his side.

 

As his hand slid down his cheek, he recalled last night's events, not a bad dream but the reality that happened, and he felt for the back of his neck. His braid was missing, a painful reminder of the cruelty of his own brother. His own blood. Victor felt all the more vulnerable than before as he curled in on himself, fighting back a new wave of tears.

 

They didn't come.

 

A strong wave of flowery fragrance caught his attention and diverted his thoughts from bad memories. Distracted, Victor glanced around the room for the first time. To his shock, he found all that had been broken the night before now repaired: the glass in the windows was new and kept the chill away, the frame of his bed had been mended without a trace, the pillow sewn together seamlessly, and even… even Victor's bruises were gone, he noticed at the lack of fingermarks on his wrists.

 

But the pot of pinks was still empty. In a fit, Victor looked around. He was sure he brought them back, but if Ivan returned while Victor slept he could've--

 

Victor's gaze fell onto the forgotten flowers on the floor. Faster than ever, he jumped out of bed and knelt next to them.

 

"Oh no, my dear pinks! What have I done to you? I forgot you and left you to wither like this!" His trembling fingers touched the weak petals hesitantly. "You've given me so much joy and this is how I repaid you. Please, forgive me!"

 

The only answer he got was the everpresent, unwavering scent and it pushed tears that he could not explain into Victor's eyes. To his own disbelief, he didn't feel tired at all and there was no pain either, not even the slightest discomfort. The guilt washed over Victor once more as he thought of how inconsiderate he was when he squished the plant in his despair. He must have let it fall from his hands in his sleep, abandoned it in his suffering.

 

He brought the plant to the kitchen since the hour was still early, took the pot and found the best earth in the back of the garden, so he could make a new home for the pitiful pinks. He watered them, brushed every petal and leaf lovingly, and carried the pot back to his room where he put it on the windowsill once more. As if he was still in some kind of a dream, he immersed his face into the flowery patch and kissed the pinks lightly, cupping their little blossoms between his palms.

 

Perhaps that helped, or it was the fresh water from the well, Victor wasn't sure, but the pinks seemed to liven up right in front of his eyes. Their faded color bled strong in the tiny petals and the stems straightened with new vigour.

 

"There you go, drink up! Be strong and healthy again! Thank you so, so much for all you have done for me. I promise I won't ever let you down like this again."

 

Watching his only source of joy grow lively once more, he forgot himself in the feeling of happiness. He opened the window wide to let the warm sun in, so they both could enjoy the day further as it was one of such that didn't happen often. As he was sighing with delight, sweet scent of pinks in his lungs, Victor wished a silly wish that the time would stand still and this peace would last.

 

And that's when he spotted his brother's silhouette on the horizon, making his way towards the house in a step that was inebriated beyond clarity – coming back from his nightly drink. Ivan's hands were empty. The thought of his braid raced through Victor's head, and he reached to the back of his neck that felt more bare than ever.

 

Ivan must have sold it, Victor realized, fighting the tremble of his fingers. And he was coming back for more. More… that Victor didn't have.

 

All the good thoughts vanished from Victor's mind, replaced by dread of what was to happen. Every chore he didn't do, every second he didn't work to earn his keep, he could see it in the pause his brother took. Ivan stood on the cart track and Victor knew the exact moment when he noticed him. Victor didn't need to know what Ivan thought: it was clear in his brother's heavy body stomping towards the house.

 

Ivan wasn't happy.

 

And an unhappy Ivan meant pain for Victor.

 

The despair at the thought of losing the little bit of happiness he was able to acquire during the day and his single restful night won over the promise Victor had made once to his beloved father. Instead of waiting for the impending doom, panicked, Victor tore through the house and ran past the garden only to jump over the ledge like a hunted deer when he heard Ivan bellow his name behind him.

 

"Vitya! You piece of trash! Get back here!"

 

Fear prickled under Victor's skin like a thousand thorns of angry roses, but Victor didn't stop. The unwillingness to see for himself if blood was really thinner than water made his strides longer, his feet carry him faster. Ivan's voice chased after him even once he made it past the forest line.  

 

"Run, you mongrel! Run! Run and never come back or I will kill you like a pig and sell your hide at the market for the little penny it will bring me!"

 

The crazed laughter bit at Victor's heels and called tears into his eyes, but what stung most was the hollow place in Victor's chest where his love for his brother used to be.

 

"Die, drop dead!" Ivan cheered from afar, voice akin to a nightmare. "You're no longer my brother! Shrivel up and die, for all I care!"

 

Victor heard the front door of the house snap loudly and Ivan's angry cries and curses faded under Victor's own heartbeat that drummed in his ears louder than any insult. The distance stretched between him and his family house, but Victor kept on running. Gasping for air until it choked out of him completely, he finally collapsed against one of the trees: exhausted, dusty, spent.

 

Like a bad rhyme of a cruel song, his heart yammered in his chest when a single moment of clarity submerged him in the pit of despair. The frantic thought ringed in his mind over and over, and he almost sobbed when he realized that _he did it again_.

 

After he promised… Just that morning he promised to never forget again, and he'd done it without looking back.

 

"The pinks, the pinks," his trembling lips spoke on a battered breath. "I've left them behind. I've forgotten them again. The poor, poor pinks, I'm so sorry..."

 

The salt of his own tears burned, but their flow didn't stop despite him pressing his clenched fists into his eyes. Even when he screamed in frustration, the stars he could see behind his closed eyelids didn't look any less accusing.

 

The sun was tilting across the horizon when Victor's sobs finally died down. With them, though, died Victor's fear and instead a new resolution took its place: he was going to get the pinks back. They were his only friend, his only keepsake from the times of childhood, and his only memory of the happier life he'd lead with his mother and father. He couldn't leave them for Ivan's mercy, for there would be none. Ivan was not a good man, Victor knew it now. He didn't deserve good things then. Not Victor's flowers, Victor's help, Victor's hard work… not even Victor himself.

 

As the night set around him, Victor made a plan to return to the house. He would do it after Ivan left for the tavern and while Ivan would be gone, Victor would tempt the fate and sneak inside to grab the pot. He would leave just as fast, because he didn't want anything else. He could take food or a blanket to sleep under, but he wasn't greedy. He could make do with his hard work, but no amount of work could replace the friend that the pinks were to him.

 

Creeping at the edge of the garden, Victor peered into the dark windows, but he couldn't see anything past the cloudy glass. If Ivan was home, Victor wouldn't know. Yet the higher the moon climbed on the night sky, the quieter the inside of the house was, which gave Victor hope that maybe everything would be alright, that he would succeed… and with that hope, he stepped into the door.

 

The old, rusty hinges screeched, but the house remained quiet. Measuring careful steps over the wooden floorboards, Victor tiptoed towards his room. He tried to be as quiet as a mouse and he might have succeeded, too.

 

He found the pinks where he'd left them that afternoon -- on the windowsill, trembling in the unpredictable gusts of nightly wind.

 

A smile touched Victor's lips as he gently scooped the pot into his arms.

 

"I came back for you," he whispered to the petals that wrapped him in their sweet scent as if to return the caring embrace. "I couldn't let you stay here alone, so let's leave and find a new home together, yes?"

 

The flowers did not reply, but it was understandable. They were only flowers, but more that that as well. Still smiling, Victor made it back towards the door. The door… that opened before he had a chance to do it.

 

"Hah! I knew you'd be back for that," Ivan sneered, nodding at the pot in Victor's hands.

 

Victor took a wary step back, but soon he realized that he had nowhere to run. Ivan was blocking the door and Victor's room wasn't a safe place, not anymore. Caught into a trap like silly prey, Victor felt the fear settle into his bones twofold.

 

"Say, what should I do with you, Vitya?" Ivan asked. His voice was filled with malice, but it lacked the usual colouring of drink. "Remember what I told you would happen if you returned? Hmm?"

 

Victor shivered and shrunk back. The words have not stopped echoing in his mind ever since he'd first heard them.

 

 _Kill, kill, kill_ …

 

He gave a whimper and backed away from the man who used to be his brother, which seemed to only incite Ivan more as he advanced on Victor and with a snarl that was more animal than human grabbed him by the throat.

 

"You filthy beggar," Ivan spat, "how dare you return here? Have I not told you I will strip you off your skin? Is that what you want?! Well, you clearly must, so let me do as you wish!"

 

Victor was powerless when Ivan yanked him away from the wall and threw him across the room. It was all Victor could do to wrap himself around the pot in order to protect it from crashing onto the floor.

 

In the end, though, it hardly mattered.

 

Ivan took his slumped form in stride and kicked right where he knew it'd hurt: the hands that desperately tried to protect his last straw of life and love that Victor was clinging to. Victor screamed when the pot crumbled into pieces in his arms, but it wasn't a scream of anger, no. It was one of pain so big that it mounted over all other pain and overpowered even Victor's deepest fear.

 

"Stop! Stop that!" Victor shouted. "Why did you do that?! The flowers are innocent in this, you monster!"

 

As if a fire was lit under him, Ivan's kicks came harder and faster. Victor screamed for him to stop, but it fell on deaf ears. Ivan's deranged laughter drowned it all, but soon even that seemed to bore him. Just destroying the flower wasn't enough and Victor knew it was his turn when the first kick caught him on the chin.

 

His head snapped back and it was an unwilling response of his body that made him throw up his arms to protect himself from the blows. The flowers spilled over his chest, fell from his arms, fingers, petals of precious pink fluttering down to the floor like colourful tears.

 

"You trash!" Ivan breathed heavily as he continued to kick Victor. "You don't deserve to live! Why did father have to die, but you were left alive?! It should've been you!"

 

Fists joined on the beating and Victor couldn't find a second to take a breath. The blows rained down on him relentlessly and all he could do was take it – take it and hope that soon Ivan will grow bored, like he always did.

 

He should've known that luck was not on his side.

 

Just when Victor thought that Ivan was finally becoming tired of the torment, the punches and kicks disappeared. Feet shuffled across the floor and Victor's heart swell with momentary relief, but… it wasn't for long.

 

"I promised to skin you alive, didn't I?" Ivan mumbled to himself. "Yes, yes, I did! What kind of a man would I be if I didn't keep to my word? A liar! And a liar I'm not."

 

The scratch of a knife being pulled out of the wooden table chilled every drop of blood in Victor's veins. He lifted the hands off his face only to see his brother advance on him with a blade glinting silver in the pale moonlight that streamed through the still open door.

 

"You're crazy," Victor whispered past his trembling lips. "You're mad!"

 

"Better mad than weak and pathetic like you," Ivan snarled back. "Now, be a good pig and squeal for me some more, Vitya."

 

On weak limbs, Victor scrambled away from the knife that was close, close, _too close_ , and getting closer still. Insanity and cruelty looked at him from Ivan's face and all Victor could think in that moment was that he will die soon.

 

He couldn't escape, not this time.

 

The mangled plant slipped from his chest as he tried to put some distance between him and his brother, but where it laid on the floorboards, it looked exactly how Victor felt: defeated, beaten, left for the dead...

 

It all happened in a blink.

 

Ivan lunged at him with the knife while the moonlight dispersed the dark with a feral glow, and Victor scrunched his eyes shut, prepared for the pain, yet nothing came. He peered from behind the arms that he threw up as a last defence and saw what he thought must have been a dream – a young man with his back turned against him was struggling against his brother's hold on the knife.

 

His clothes were rich, fit for a prince, and his hair was swept away from the eyes of the warmest brown that now were scalding hot and narrowed in focus and anger so vivid that Victor could feel it in the ruffle of the air.

 

A gasp tore past Victor's lips, because he recognized those eyes. He'd dreamed of them once, but was it really a dream when they were right here before him, more real than any other dream he ever had?

 

The whimper, airy and loud, that left Victor at the force of Ivan's punch that connected with the young man's chest was lost in the sounds of the scuffle. The two didn't pay him any attention as they struggled, but Victor, with newfound hope fluttering in his chest, watched how the young man slowly overpowered Ivan.

 

He was close to winning, but a roar of desperation gave Ivan additional strength. He slammed his head against the man's face and blood, sweet and scented like flowers, spilled over the beautiful clothes and the ratty floor. Free of the hand that kept the knife down, Ivan swung his arm.

 

The blade glinted, Victor screamed in warning, the young man moved faster than a coiled snake and–

 

–Ivan stumbled back, his hand clutching the place where the knife embedded itself up to the hilt inside his gut. Blood darkened his tunic, flowed down his hand.

 

Victor's own hands shook as he lifted them to cover his mouth while Ivan fell to his knees, then to his side, and finally, taking a few last raspy breaths, he stilled forever.

 

"Is he…?"

 

Victor's tongue tasted like blood in his mouth and he realized that he must have bitten it sometime during the fight. Blood… the same blood like the blood that was seeping into the floorboards of his childhood home. _Their_ childhood home.

 

And this, this corpse… it used to be his blood brother.

 

"Dead," a voice pronounced and when Victor lifted his gaze from Ivan's dead body, the warm brown eyes were gazing at him softly. "I'm sorry it has come to this. It wasn't my intention to interfere, but…"

 

The young man's lips pressed together as if he was pained by the admission. The blood was smeared on his face, still trickling from his nose in a free flow.

 

Victor quickly shook his head.

 

"No, no, please," he said. "This wasn't your fault. I'm… I'm thankful for what you've done. He, he would've killed me without mercy if you hadn't stopped him."

 

"You've suffered much at his hand, I know," the young man replied. "I hated to see you hurt, but I could never manifest before, since the night when the moon stands high is the only time I can come to your aid. Trust me when I say that I wanted to be of use to you before, but now that I have…" The young man looked back at Ivan's dead body. "I wish things could've been different."

 

"I'm sorry," Victor whispered. Without truly knowing why, he felt the tears gather in his eyes. "I never meant to bother anyone with this. I'm so sorry for making you do this… You– you've killed a man in my defence, that's– I wish you hadn't had to do that."

 

The young man shook his head as he reached for one of Victor's hands. He gently took it and held it between both of his. They were warm and soft.

 

Like petals, Victor thought, even as his breath caught in his throat.

 

"I wish that too, but I am not sad I had done it," the young man told him. "Your brother was an evil man, who got what he deserved. Maybe that was even kinder than what he truly deserves." The frown on the man's face was fierce, but as soon as he gazed into Victor's eyes it cleared into an expression of warmth and care. "I am glad I can be here now, though. It is not the first time I see you, but to you it must be, no?"

 

"How?" Victor asked, voice a whisper. "Who are you? Why are you here?"

 

"My name is Yuuri," the man said, smiling. "And you have protected me and loved me since the day you received me from your father."

 

Victor's gasp was loud in the silence that fell after Yuuri's words. "The pinks?"

 

Yuuri nodded. He lifted his other hand to touch a the side of Victor's quickly swelling face and like magic, the stinging disappeared. With every caress of tender fingers, the bruises and hurts that plagued Victor's body lessened.

 

Astounded, Victor couldn't tear his gaze away from Yuuri's gentle smile.

 

"You've loved me, cared for me, protected me and, even today, you've returned here just for me, didn't you?" Victor didn't need to speak a word, because Yuuri's eyes betrayed that he knew it to be true. "Thank you, Vitya. You're my saviour."

 

The kindness from a stranger, the beating, the fear… It all crashed down on Victor all of a sudden and the tears he was trying so valiantly to swallow returned with even more strength. This time, though, he wasn't allowed to fight them. Yuuri gathered him into his arms and pressed Victor's face into the crook of his neck.

 

"Cry," he spoke gently. "Cry, Vitya. You're safe now."

 

And Victor cried.

 

Yuuri smelled of flowers, of the little pinks, a crown of which rested atop Yuuri's temples. His body was strong as he held Victor in a secure embrace. One of his hands rubbed at Victor's back like his mother had used to do, and it was easy to give way to his overflowing emotions then.

 

So Victor sobbed his heart out, cried out all his wrongs, sniffled at the insults and injuries, and once he was done, he rested in the comforting warmth of Yuuri's hold for as long as was proper.

 

"Are you a fairy?" Victor asked.

 

His voice was raspy from crying and he must have looked a mess, but Yuuri's laughter was kind. As was his face when he gazed down into Victor's eye.

 

"I wish I could answer all your questions, Vitya, but my time is running out," he said, a saddened smile curling around his mouth. "I need you to listen to me and listen carefully."

 

Yuuri pulled Victor upright and took both of his hands. The gentle squeeze made Victor's own heart repeat it inside his chest.

 

"I will turn back into a flower soon. Once it happens, I need you to take me into the forest. Find the Queen of the Woods and entrust her with me. She will know what to do and she will be grateful for your help. You will be rewarded beyond belief."

 

Victor shook his head. "I need no reward, please. You saved my life. Allow me to do this for you in return. It's the least I can offer to repay you."

 

The smile that Yuuri gave him then was a fond look of affection that made Victor's cheeks turn a shade of pink like the flowers atop Yuuri's crown.

 

"You are a kind and precious soul," Yuuri told him. "I am fortunate to have been in your care."

 

Victor's flush deepened at the praise, but the words of reply got lost on his tongue when a glow came from Yuuri's skin. With one last squeeze to Victor's hands, Yuuri transformed into a mangled sapling of pinks that sat in Victor's lap as quietly as it always comforted him in the times of pain and heartbreak.

 

Gently, Victor scooped the plant into his arms and stood up. His walk was shaky and he felt exhausted at the thought of traversing the forest in the search of the queen, but it was what he promised, so he took one step after another, until he ventured so deep into the forest he didn't know left from right anymore.

 

A thought that he might have gotten lost crossed his mind, but he quickly discarded it. It mattered little if that indeed was the case: he could be lost, but as long as he found the Queen and gave her the flower, he didn't mind it.

 

He needn't have worried, though.

 

The Queen herself must have known something was to happen, because she found Victor first. In her rich robes and rings and earrings of gold and diamonds she looked like a ghost between the darkness of the trees. Soon, fairy lights sparked into being all around them, as if called forth by her presence alone, and what startled Victor before, now brought a warmth to his limbs.

 

"Your Majesty," Victor spoke, quickly bowing, but she shook her head.

 

Her curled up hair bounced around her head, sweet and beautiful. Her smile was much similar, and her voice was kind when she spoke to him.

 

"Rise, my friend," she said. "You needn't bow. We are friends here, there is no need to uphold propriety like so."

 

When Victor straightened, he wasted no time in showing the Queen the bundle of flowers he held against his chest.

 

"I was sent here, Your Majesty," Victor started, and then recalled the story of the entire night.

 

The Queen listened with her hand held against her mouth at the atrocities that Victor had to suffer. Her eyes shone with pity, but they were filled with tears by the end of the story with something more than that.

 

"And then the young man asked me to bring him here," Victor finished. "He said you will know what to do, how to save him."

 

"I do," the Queen replied, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Yes. Yes, I do. Here, come."

 

Victor stepped up close and offered her the poor pinks, but she didn't take them. She leaned in close instead and pressed a kiss to the tender petals. Her tears and love must have done what Victor couldn't, Victor realized as the plant began to glow.

 

It took no longer than a second for the young man, for _Yuuri_ , to reappear.

 

"Yuuri!" the Queen cried.

 

"Mother…"

 

Victor stood to the side, watching mother and son be reunited, and even through his surprise at the turn of events, he could feel the happiness burning slow in his chest. There were overjoyed smiles on both their faces, and even through the tears their eyes were filled with love.

 

Victor smiled, glad that he could help them find each other again.

 

"You did us a great favour," the Queen spoke after a moment. "Please, whatever you wish will be yours, as long as it is in my power to grant."

 

"I wish for nothing," Victor replied, shaking his head. "And it was only right that I repay the kindness both of you have shown me. I need no reward."

 

Victor was certain that the Queen would argue, but before she could, Yuuri spoke for her.

 

"Then, if you will, could you grant me a different wish?" he asked. "One that would require payment that we could offer you."

 

Victor considered it for a moment, before he asked: "What is your wish?"

 

Yuuri's smile was warm and sweet like the sun-warmed petals of Victor's beloved pinks when he replied:

 

"Your time. I wish for you to stay with us. Stay, and never leave."

 

He offered a hand to Victor, who stood rooted in place as his mind brought back the painful memories of Ivan telling him how much of a waste he was, how he'd love to get rid of him, how he took up space he never deserved… and here was a man, a complete stranger, except not entirely – a cursed prince who watched over Victor's suffering and saved him when he needed it most – and he was offering him a home. A place to belong.

 

Warmth, love, acceptance. It was all locked and promised in Yuuri's gaze.

 

Tears came to Victor's eyes of their own will, but he didn't do anything to stop them. Through trembling lips, Victor whispered:

 

"Are you certain I can...?"

 

"Yes," Yuuri said, no hint of hesitation in his voice. "I want you."

 

And what could Victor say to that?

 

Gratitude gave him wings and he flew straight into Yuuri's open, welcoming arms for the first time feeling how true freedom feels like, and on breathless laughter, with the tears streaming down his face – Victor soared.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> this has been a lovely labour of inspiration that we both enjoyed immensely, so we do hope that you found something in fic that stood out to you <3 thank you for reading!


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